Page 42 of Stealing His Cupcake
“Right. This way.” Wyatt’s voice is perfectly steady, but from the way he withdraws his hands from me, I sense his disappointment. Does he think I’m going to say no to him like I did yesterday? God, was that only yesterday? It feels like a million years have passed since we met.
As he leads the way out of the spacious living space, I reach out to take his hand. He looks surprised, like he didn’t expect me to touch him unless I have to, which is something I’ll have to change. I’m done being afraid of him or feeling guilty about being attracted to him. Now I want him to fuck me until I pass out and yes, that’s definitely not a normal or healthy response, but I’m letting myself feel, just like Miranda advised. “Then wecan go to bed,” I tell him, “but right now, I’m all sweaty and sticky, and I’d really love to take a shower.”
His expression lights up with a seductive smile. “I don’t mind you sweaty or sticky, cupcake. I could hold you down and lick you clean.”
My breath catches at the intensity of his gaze, and I take an instinctive step back. Except there’s a closed door behind me and now Wyatt cages me against it. Heartbeat picking up, I stare into his eyes, reading the promises in them, suddenly not so sure I can handle everything he has in store for me. To my surprise, that thought only makes me wetter. Do I have some weird fear kink? Do I actually like it when he scares me? Just a little fear, not the full-blown he’s-going-to-rape-and-murder-me terror, but the bit that has my heart racing and hands trembling, the part that tickles my lizard brain with a promise of danger.
Maybe I’m possessed. A demon inhabits my body, making me crave all these immoral things. Maybe I just need an exorcism to be a good, law-abiding girl again. Or maybe that’s a convenient excuse. Maybe this is how I’m supposed to be. Free to feel whatever the hell I want to. Damn, Miranda really is good. I have to tell Kayla. Later. Now, I have to succumb to the devilish wiles of my husband. Not because he’s forcing me to, but because I want to.
“Lick me clean?” I repeat his words, cringing only a little. “That should sound gross, not sexy.” But it reminds me of his tongue between my legs and my body reacts, ready to melt under his touch.
Lowering his head so that every breath fans my lips, Wyatt whispers, “Forget aboutshouldandshouldn’t, Amy. Such silly moral constructs don’t exist in this house.”
Maybe he’s the one possessed by a demon. The devil himself, tempting me, and I’ll happily let him. After I’ve taken a shower because I’m not a cat. Being licked clean just doesn’t work for me.
Chapter 31
Wyatt
Amyisthemostconfusing creature I’ve ever met. One moment, she’s terrified, the next, she’s relaxed, then she’s both afraid and horny at once? I’m usually good at guessing people’s thoughts, but I don’t understand her and it scares me. I’m terrified of making the wrong decision, of taking a step in the wrong direction, or of doing something that will alienate her from me forever. Fear is not a familiar feeling to me, which makes it doubly unpleasant, but Amy makes everything worth it. The way her pupils dilate as she looks at me, her lips parted in an invitation I struggle to resist, her voluptuous chest heaving with ragged breaths, her thighs clenched together to…put some friction on her clit? Does she get off on me towering over her and caging her against the door?
God, could she be any more perfect?
Slowly, ready to stop at the first sign of her panic, I move my hand to her knee, then draw it upward, under that beautiful dress of hers. It’s a modest length, reaching just above her knees, but the whole day of watching glimpses of her thighs has had me crazy with need. I’ve also glimpsed laceup on her thighs more than once, and I’m ready to discover what my wife is hiding beneath that dress.
Amy sucks in a sharp breath as I move my hand further up and over the lacything. It’s like a strap around her thigh, and I have no clue what its purpose might be other than driving men insane.
Confusion must show in my expression because Amy whispers, “Bandalettes. They’re, um, they protect from chaffing.” She sounds embarrassed about it, lowering her head so I can’t see her face. Now, that just won’t do.
With the hand that’s currently not busy exploring the lace, I tip Amy’s chin up so she has no choice but to look at me. “That’s a genius invention.” I mean it. I wish they made something like this for guys because while my thighs aren’t as beautifully thick and soft as Amy’s, a long hike can cause chaffing, too. Or perhaps they do make a male version, and I’ve just never thought to look. “You have nothing to be embarrassed about, cupcake. I told you that you’re perfect just the way you are and this,” I force my hand between her thighs, the lace scraping sensually against my skin, “is sexy as fuck.”
Amy nods absently, her eyes glued to my lips in the most obvious invitation to a kiss I’ve ever seen. Since I’m powerless to deny her anything, I press my mouth against hers in a light, mostly chaste kiss, curious to see if she pulls away or deepens it. Amy’s lips part, her tongue darting out to taste mine. With a hand on her nape, I tilt her head further and take control over the kiss, relishing in the way she relaxes against me. She likes me taking charge.
My hand between her legs finally makes its way to its destination. Amy’s panties are soaked and she rocks her hips, moving against my hand to gain friction. Our moans bleed through our kiss as I stroke the wet fabric, my cock throbbing in the tight confines of my pants.
“I-I need a-a shower,” Amy protests weakly, her words punctuated by gasping inhales. “I stink.”
Running my nose up the column of her throat, I inhale deeply. “No, you don’t. You’re perfect, and I think I’ll die if I have to wait any longer.”
Her chuckle is a little breathless, her hands gripping my shoulders tightly. “So dramatic. But you still haven’t shown me the bedroom,husband.”
I groan as the word sends a wave of liquid fire straight into my cock. Fuck, who knew a single word could be so sexy? “It’s right behind you,wife,” I reply throatily, pleased to hear her soft moan as I call her my wife. With the greatest reluctance, I remove my hand from between her legs and wrap an arm around her waist to support her as I open the door she’s been leaning against. I don’t give her a chance to look around, guiding her back until we’re by the bed and she tips onto it with a startled squeal.
Had I known I would be bringing her back with me, I would have tidied up better. I’m not a slob in any sense of the word but there are always some once-worn pants hanging over a chair, papers and leaflets strewn over the dresser, a pile of books on my nightstand, and a few balls of yarn with some long-forgotten crocheting project on an armchair by the window. The bed is unmade, too, because that’s one thing I simply can’t make myself do. I mean, why make your bed every morning when you’re just going to mess it up again in the evening? At least I’ve put away my fleshlight. Wait, I did put it away, right?
Light clicks on. Amy, a mirage lying in the middle of my bed, has found the bedside lamp switch, and is now curiously observing a place no other woman has ever visited. When I’ve had hookups, it was always at their places or in hotel rooms. I’ve never been with anyone from around here and I’ve most certainly never invited anyone to my house. Mrs. Wilkins being the sole exception, and she only comes over to bring me cookies and gossip. And why the fuck am I thinking about my eighty-year-old neighbor now? Am I nervous? I don’t get nervous in the bedroom. I’ve been with dozens of women and I’ve satisfied every single one of them. Repeatedly.
The sex part isn’t an issue. It’s everything else. My house, my bedroom. My life. I don’t know what I’ll do if Amy hates me for who I am.
I take a moment to appreciate the sight of her here, in my most private space, committing it to memory just in case I never get to see her this relaxed here again. I mean, of course, I could chain her to my bed and never let her leave, but that would probably not help me win her over. Or maybe it would? I have a feeling Amy will like a little fear with her pleasure, but it will be difficult to walk that line without tipping her into to the wrong side of that fear. For now, though, I’m just going with as much pleasure as I can give her.
She’s lying on her side, examining the books on my bedside table. They’re mostly thrillers and crime fiction. I like to laugh at how authors portray hitmen, probably the same way doctors laugh when they watch “medical” TV shows. Amy frowns as she notices the crochet pattern book on the bottom of the pile. “You weren’t lying. You really made that scarf?” She lost it during our passionate kiss and it now lies crumpled on the floor by the door.
“The only thing I lied to you about was that you’d be considered an accessory to Turbo’s death. Everything else was true and I don’t plan on ever lying to you again,” I say seriously.
“Thank you,” she whispers. “That means a lot. After—”
“I know,” I interrupt her, rather rudely, but I don’t want to hear Craig’s name in our bedroom. As Amy shifts, one of the lacy thigh guards peeks at me from beneath her dress and my cock throbs with renewed intensity. Taking pity on it, I undo my pants, breathing a sigh of relief when it stretches against my boxers. “If you like that dress, you better take it off,” I tell Amy. “Because I’m about to tear it off you.”
